


The Trouble with Wizards

by Aini_NuFire



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Legolas meets Aragorn fic, Pre-Fellowship, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 06:29:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6790261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gandalf enlists the help of Legolas and a young Ranger to find the wizard Radagast, who's gone missing. When trouble finds Gandalf, the elf and man must work together to save him. And it just might be the beginnings of an epic friendship…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meddlesome Wizards

**Author's Note:**

> I have a handful of LOTR fics over on ff.net from 2015, and hadn't transferred them over before because I didn't think there was an audience for them over here. But I stand corrected by at least one person, so in case there are other LOTR fans on this site, here we go.
> 
> Takes place TA 2961. Aragorn is 30.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine, I’m just borrowing them. Also, I’ve made an attempt to use proper elvish, but I’m not an expert and there’s a lot of variety out there in dictionaries and usage, so please forgive any mistakes. Meanings of Sindarin phrases are woven into the narrative with context clues.

 

Gandalf sipped methodically from his goblet, eyes meeting the calculating gaze of his host across the table from him. “The Dorwinion is excellent as always,” he complimented.

Thranduil held his cup cradled in one hand, elbow elegantly braced on the arm of his chair. “I shall have a bottle wrapped for you as a gift when you are on your way,” the Elvenking of Mirkwood replied. The unspoken ‘soon’ hung between them like a thick gossamer web. Gandalf’s beard twitched as he bit back a sigh of consternation. Thranduil had never liked the Grey Wizard overly much, though as the days grew darker, the king had taken to isolating himself further and further. To Mirkwood’s detriment, in Gandalf’s opinion. An opinion which said king did not share. The two old and wise beings disagreed on a good many things, in fact.

Light footsteps ascending the steps to the dais brought a smile of relief to Gandalf, and he turned his head toward where a blond elf in blue and silver royal garb appeared. “Ah, Legolas, back already?” _Not a moment too soon_.

Legolas’s lips curved upward in a secret smile, as though he’d guessed the direction of the wizard’s thoughts. The prince was no stranger to the aloof and awkward atmosphere Thranduil seemed to create wherever he went. “I’ve spoken with all of the captains not currently out on patrol, and I’m afraid none have reported seeing the wizard Radagast in the past several months.” Legolas gave Gandalf an apologetic look, knowing that was not the answer he’d been hoping for.

Gandalf sighed; it had been a long shot anyway. “Well, thank you for checking.”

“It is unfortunate we could not be of more help,” Thranduil said, setting his goblet down.

Gandalf’s shoulders heaved with a small huff at the trace of insincerity. He would even go so far as to say the Elvenking was _relieved_ none of his people had any knowledge of the Brown Wizard. Thranduil looked as though he was ready to gift-wrap that bottle of Dorwinion right this second, but Gandalf was not finished.

“Actually, there is a way you could provide additional assistance.”

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed dangerously, yet before he could utter a warning, Gandalf plowed on, turning his gaze to address Legolas.

“I would like to conduct a search of the forest, and a wood-elf would be a most useful guide.”

“We cannot spare anyone for such a trivial pursuit,” Thranduil interjected, tone hard as steel.

Legolas frowned thoughtfully. “You truly believe Radagast is in danger?”

“More likely the bumbling fool fell down a rabbit’s hole and decided to hibernate.”

Gandalf scowled at Thranduil, king or no. “I admit, Radagast has his…eccentricities. But it is not normal for him to go so long without responding to my attempts to contact him. I will not divulge the inner workings of wizards to you, _my lord_ , but I assure you, something serious must be preventing Radagast from reaching out to me.”

“That is no concern of the elves,” he retorted, reaching for his cup of wine once again. His mouth pinched sourly as he drank, though Gandalf doubted it had anything to do with the vintage.

“Need I remind you that Radagast has long been an ally of Greenwood? Tending the southern part of the forest and holding back the Shadow with as much devotion and zeal as the elves. You owe him a great many victories.” Gandalf crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.

Thranduil’s intense glare threatened to pierce him with ice daggers, but the Grey Wizard was not daunted.

“I do not mind going,” Legolas spoke up, earning a sharp glower from his father.

“You have duties here,” Thranduil pointed out.

“Yes, but is there not a greater duty to fulfill? Gandalf is right: Radagast has always been an ally to us. When has turning our backs on friends ever served us in the long run?”

Thranduil rose to his feet in one swift movement of swishing robes. “You would speak on matters you know nothing about?”

Gandalf tensed. Bringing up the incident of when Smaug had first come to the Lonely Mountain—and the events afterward—was still a very sore subject with the king.

Legolas’s jaw stiffened. With a small incline of his head, he ceded the unintended disrespect. “No, my liege, I would never question your wisdom in matters of war and the value of elven lives. However…” And now the prince lifted his chin boldly. Gandalf always found it amusing whenever Thranduil was faced with a resolve to rival his own. “I am not suggesting we place the lives of our people at risk.”

“Just your own.”

“It is merely a reconnaissance mission,” Legolas pointed out. “Besides, if something is lurking in the forest that is powerful enough to overcome one of the Istari, should we not be prepared for it?”

Thranduil’s eyes darkened. “And if it turns out the wizard has simply been running amok?”

“Then we may toast his good health with a bottle of Dorwinion.” Legolas’s eyes danced as he exchanged a mischievous look with Gandalf. Thranduil, however, did not appear amused, and began to pace around his son.

“You speak of a dreadful evil hiding in the forest, one capable of overpowering a wizard, and yet you would go searching for it with only another vulnerable wizard as aid.”

Gandalf bristled at the slight. He _was_ a more skilled mage than Radagast. The Brown Wizard was talented in his own right, to be sure, but he wasn’t exactly the type to face down a balrog.

“Would you send a contingent of elves?” he asked pointedly.

“I believe stealth would serve us better in this case,” Legolas spoke up quickly, before Thranduil could. “I will be careful, father. And I have one advantage even an Istar does not.”

Yes, Legolas’s affinity with trees was one reason Gandalf had come seeking the prince’s aid. Any wood-elf could commune with them, but Legolas’s ability was particularly attuned, probably due to his mix of Sindarin and Silvan blood. That was only part of Gandalf’s reasoning, though, and he had no intention of revealing the other half to Thranduil.

The king’s jaw worked as though he intended to forbid it, but the reality was that if a threat was growing in Mirkwood, it would directly affect the elves eventually. That Thranduil could not ignore, no matter how much he despised Gandalf’s so-called ‘meddling.’

Thranduil waved a dismissive hand at Legolas, not bothering to meet his son’s eyes. The prince inclined his head respectfully, then turned to Gandalf.

“I can be ready within the hour.”

Gandalf nodded, and with that the younger elf pivoted and swept down the steps. The wizard drained the last of his wine and rose to his feet, retrieving his staff and hat from the back post of the chair.

“Mithrandir,” Thranduil said, tone pitched low with heavy warning. “You will return my son to me in one piece.” Dark eyes skewered Gandalf where he stood, tempestuous orbs swirling with the promise of violent fury should the wizard fail to do as charged.

Gandalf was not _afraid_ of the Elvenking, but he did recognize a perilous situation when he stood on the precipice of it. “I can no more guarantee his safety than you can when he steps foot outside this palace on patrol.” The air crackled with the clash of two indomitable auras, yet Gandalf toned his down a fraction and softened his voice. “But I will do everything in my power to look after him, as I have always done. Your son is a skilled warrior, my lord. Trust that he has a great part to play.”

Thranduil eyed him warily, believing it a portent of doom to ever be involved in a wizard’s prophecy. And perhaps, in a way, it was, for the price of being extraordinary was to face extraordinary—and often terrible—things. But Legolas would not be alone, that Gandalf was certain of.

With a gracious nod, the wizard took his leave of the Elvenking and made his way to the great doors of the underground palace where he waited for Legolas to join him. He did not wait long, and soon the prince bounded down the steps of a side corridor, having changed into simple green garb. His bow and quiver full of arrows was strapped to his back, along with a travel pouch. He held a second in his hands, which he offered to Gandalf. Through the opening, the Istar caught sight of leaf-wrapped packages containing elvish waybread.

“Ah, excellent,” he commented, and donned his wide-brimmed hat.

Legolas nodded to the guards, who pulled the doors open with a heavy creak. Golden light filled the glade just outside, one of the few remaining places in Mirkwood where the sun could even penetrate the forest’s thick canopy. Autumn had begun painting the leaves in bright reds, purples, and yellows, teasing them loose from their branches to dot the ground. The palace was an oasis in a forest that had been heavily tainted under the influence of the growing Shadow. Large sections of the once great Greenwood now festered with poison and malcontent, evil creatures nested within its boughs, and those who entered did so at their own peril. Yet it was the home of the wood-elves, and they would fight for it until the stars rained down from heaven and the elements burned away.

Legolas led the way across the bridge to the forest edge, but then paused to wait for Gandalf. “You wish to travel south to Rhosgobel, yes?”

“Aye, though I should like to take the Elf Path to the western border, and then make our way south.”

“I can guide you through the center of the forest, Gandalf,” Legolas pointed out, sounding almost offended. “Even though it is dangerous, I thought time was an important factor here.”

“It is, but I have one more friend who will aid us in this endeavor, and he will be waiting for us at the end of the Path.”

Legolas canted a curious look at him. “Not another wizard, for you would have used such information to convince my father quicker. Who then?”

Gandalf’s beard twitched as he hid a smile. “You will see.” Oh, Thranduil would have his head ere the king found out about this. But then, such was the reason Gandalf didn’t tell him…

* * *

 

Legolas was used to the mysterious ways of wizards, but Gandalf’s persistent silence regarding the identity of the stranger they would be meeting up with left the elf baffled and a little miffed. Why must it be a secret if Legolas would discover the truth eventually? Not that Legolas didn’t trust the wizard, but Mithrandir’s manipulations had a reputation for causing…trouble.

The further they traveled from the heart of the elven kingdom, the darker the forest became. Legolas kept his eyes peeled through the thickening canopy of gnarled branches and tangles of mulch snagged in old cobwebs. The Elf Path was meant to provide secure passage through Mirkwood, but spiders were known to cross it. Legolas held his bow at the ready in one hand at all times, and though neither he nor the wizard required much rest, they were forced to stop at night, for to use the light of Gandalf’s staff would risk drawing attention from the spawn of Ered Gorgoroth.

They made it to the border without incident though, and Legolas felt a pang as he stepped from underneath the oppressive canopy; the poignant difference in the air that he inhaled deeply grieved his heart. Out here in the open, the air was fresh and crisp, whereas his home behind him was noxious to breathe. And no matter how hard he fought, he could not restore the former glory of Greenwood the Great.

His head snapped to the side as a hooded figure detached itself from a nearby tree. Legolas was surprised he hadn’t noticed the stranger the moment he emerged from the forest, and being caught off guard put him on edge. One hand was already reaching for his shouldered bow when Gandalf let out a hearty greeting.

“Ah, right on time. I hope you weren’t waiting long?”

Legolas relaxed only a fraction, but still regarded the figure warily as he pushed the hood of his cloak back. It was a man, with a head of dark hair that curled at the ends around his shoulders. A thin beard suggested he’d either had the luxury of trimming it recently, or was too young to grow anything thicker. His cloth was poor and travel-worn, and yet he held himself with a proud, almost noble bearing. A sword girded his hip, a bow and quiver his back.

“Not long at all. In fact, I intentionally arrived a little late so as to match your definition of ‘on time,’” the man replied with a light smirk. Gandalf huffed.

Legolas almost shared the amused grin, and it struck him as curious that this mortal would be so knowledgeable of the wizard’s habits, but caution had him maintaining restraint.

“Erm,” Gandalf mumbled, shifting his stance to commence introductions. “Legolas, this is Aragorn; Aragorn, meet Legolas.”

The man inclined his head in greeting, which Legolas returned, albeit somewhat stiffly. It was not that he held any great prejudice toward humans; he just didn’t interact with them much. There had been a few occasions in Dale, and while some had proven their valor in the Battle of Five Armies, they were still primarily peasants. Not the sort to take on a potentially dangerous venture into southern Mirkwood.

“Do you wish to skirt the edge of the wood, or travel within it?” this ‘Aragorn’ asked Gandalf.

The wizard leaned on his staff. “I assume you have something to say about each course.”

Aragorn’s mouth quirked. “Greenwood has its own dangers, but there have been reports of orcs coming down from the Misty Mountains. It might be prudent to take the more concealed road.”

Legolas angled a bemused look at Gandalf. Who was this man that the wizard would listen to his counsel? Not to mention that it had not escaped the prince’s notice Aragorn had referred to the forest by its proper name, ‘Greenwood,’ rather than the more prevalent ‘Mirkwood.’ Was it out of respect? Had Gandalf coached him?

Gandalf turned to Legolas. “The spiders stick to the deeper sections of the forest, yes?”

He nodded slowly. “Yes. But I would still not advise lighting a fire at night.”

“Very well, let us be off then.”

Aragorn moved to retrieve a pack lying between the roots of an oak, and Legolas took the moment to draw closer to Gandalf’s shoulder. “ _Man te?_ ” he whispered, asking who this man was. It was possible he came from a nearby village, which would explain how he knew about orc movements in the area, but why would he leave his home and livelihood to help search for a wayward wizard?

“ _Mellon. Bór te_ ,” Gandalf replied, declaring him a friend and one who was trustworthy.

Legolas cast an appraising look at the young mortal again. He was having a difficult time understanding the purpose of bringing a human along, and so asked as much. “ _Am man theled adan?_ ”

“ _Maen reinr._ ”

Legolas frowned. A skilled tracker was all well and good, but surely there were more experienced candidates?

Aragorn slung his pack over his shoulder and turned back to them. “ _Im in Dúnedain,_ ” he said in perfect elvish without a trace of foreign accent. “ _Ni veren an gin govaned._ ” _It’s a pleasure to meet you._

Legolas blinked dumbly at him for a moment before feeling a modicum of chagrin. He had assumed the man to be ignorant of the elvish tongue, for few were versed in it. Why hadn’t Gandalf _told_ him? Legolas shot the wizard a scowl before turning back and bowing his head toward the Dúnedan. “ _Goheno nin_ ,” he said, asking forgiveness before switching to the Common Tongue. “I did not mean to be disrespectful.”

“You mean you did not expect me to understand what you were saying.”

Legolas’s jaw tightened. That wasn’t quite what he meant, though in truth, he wouldn’t have apologized if he hadn’t been caught. He threw another displeased glare Gandalf’s way.

“Alright, that’s enough,” the old wizard harrumphed. “Time may very well be of the essence here and I have need of both your skill sets.”

Aragorn nodded once, and then pivoted to stride into the forest, apparently not possessing a single ounce of fear that any normal mortal would. Legolas resisted rolling his eyes. He had not made the best first impression, something that irked him more than he cared to admit. If he was going to spend the next week or so in the company of this _adan_ , he would have preferred a more amicable start with the human.

“Just give Aragorn a chance,” Gandalf said, and winked at the prince as he started after the Ranger. “ _Avo drasto._ ”

Legolas sighed. A wizard telling him not to worry was like saying his giant pet spider was safe to touch. And this endeavor suddenly promised to be just as uncomfortable.


	2. An Elf and a Ranger

It would take them a week to travel the length of Mirkwood to the southern parts of the forest and Radagast’s home in Rhosgobel, so Legolas decided to make an effort to acquaint himself with the young Ranger. After all, Aragorn appeared to be a trusted friend of Gandalf’s, and that alone spoke volumes about the man.

“You speak elvish unusually well for a…” Legolas cut himself off with a suppressed sigh. He’d meant it as a curious question, but apparently he’d inherited his father’s tendency for what some called ‘blunt diplomacy.’

“A human?” the Ranger finished for him. “I’ve been speaking it since I was a child.”

Legolas swallowed a snort; the human was still a child in the elf’s eyes. Though not in the eyes of his own kind, he reminded himself. If he had to guess, the Ranger was probably in his late twenties, early thirties. Legolas leaped over a knotted tangle of undergrowth, and turned to assist his companions, but Aragorn merely vaulted over it as well, with a balanced agility strikingly similar to that of an elf’s. Who _was_ this man?

Legolas held his hand out and helped Gandalf hobble over the chaparral. “How did you and Mithrandir meet?”

Aragorn exchanged a weighted look with the wizard. There was a story there, one perhaps Legolas had not yet earned the right to hear. It did stir his curiosity even more though.

“We met five years ago during my travels through Eriador,” the Ranger replied, and then tossed a sly grin over his shoulder at Gandalf. “I came upon an odd old man having an argument with a squirrel.”

Gandalf’s beard fluttered with a puff of indignation. “An argument is overstating it.”

The young man laughed, a rich baritone sound that rang unfamiliar, yet not unwelcome, in these parts. “What else would you call it, standing at the base of a tree and shouting at the poor rodent for snatching your breakfast?”

Legolas’s lips twitched, trying to imagine such a scene. He could almost hear Gandalf’s curmudgeonly voice attempting to reason with a lesser animal.

Aragorn shook his head in amusement. “I am still impressed it managed to carry the pack that high.”

“Yes, well, he was a rather resourceful fellow,” Gandalf grumbled, then glanced at Legolas. “ _You_ would have been more of an aid than this rapscallion.”

Aragorn’s brows shot up mockingly. “Oh? I was not aware wood-elves talked to squirrels.”

“We do _not_ ,” Legolas put in, unsure whether he should be offended. Yet the Ranger’s smirk invited not a challenge, but shared merriment at the wizard’s expense. The prince felt his mouth curve upward slightly. “I am surprised you were willing to risk befriending such an eccentric—and possibly mad—old man.”

“I beg your pardon?” Gandalf interjected, and then mumbled something under his breath about regretting introducing the two of them.

Aragorn’s expression turned thoughtful, and there was that secret exchange between him and Mithrandir that suggested there was a great deal more to the story than a happenstance encounter with a squirrel.

Legolas decided to divert the conversation for now, knowing just how futile it would be to press the wizard for details he was not ready to share. And, Legolas had noticed how Gandalf was letting Aragorn answer all the questions, leaving the man to choose how much to divulge. It created a peculiar puzzle, that was for certain.

“You said you were traveling through Eriador,” he said. “Where do you hail from?”

Aragorn paused to glance at Gandalf, this time slightly questioning, as though seeking the wizard’s approval this time. Gandalf made no indication that Legolas could detect, and after another moment, the Ranger responded, “I was raised in Imladris.”

Legolas pulled up short. Well, that explained a few things, and opened up a slew of additional mysteries. A covert look at Gandalf showed he was no more willing to give the prince a clue than he was willing to aid Aragorn in the storytelling. Why did Legolas feel as though the wizard were playing a game neither of them were privy to?

“And how long have you known Gandalf?” Aragorn asked in turn.

Legolas smiled and resumed walking. “A long time.” Many lifetimes of men, in fact.

“I met Legolas when he was just an elfling,” Gandalf spoke up, using the end of his staff to beat a path through the shrubbery for himself.

Aragorn craned his neck to arch an intrigued brow. “Dare I ask how many centuries?”

Legolas’s forehead creased in thought. Time was an eternal concept for elves—save falling in battle—and so they did not count the years with such detail as mortals did, for whom time was ephemeral. “Millennia,” he finally replied, and then added, “Almost two.” He rarely revealed his age to mortals, for it often unnerved them, but Aragorn merely pursed his lips in consideration. Of course, he’d been raised among elves, and would know more of their ways.

“Tell me,” the Ranger began, and there was a note of mischief Legolas was beginning to detect in his demeanor. “Was Gandalf _ever_ young?”

This time Legolas laughed, a more musical tenor than the man’s had been, but equally bright under a darkening forest. “I don’t know. It is possible he did not have _quite_ as much gray hair back then.”

“Until I met one incorrigible young prince!” Gandalf harrumphed. “Whose antics were enough to turn anyone’s hair gray.”

Legolas grinned at the wizard, and then noticed Aragorn stiffen slightly. The elf paused, gaze quickly whipping over their surroundings, but the woods were still and quiet. When he looked back, Aragorn had apparently recovered himself, though for the next several minutes, Legolas caught the Ranger casting surreptitious glances at him. It took a moment, but he realized where the slip had come from: Gandalf had called him prince. Though Aragorn had been raised with elves, he’d lived with the Ñoldor, so it made sense he may not have recognized Legolas’s name right away. Why hadn’t Gandalf told him? In fact, why was Gandalf being cagey at all? Legolas would ask, if he thought he would get a straight answer.

They fell silent after that. Legolas did not feel like discussing his lineage, nor it seemed did Aragorn feel brave enough to ask. The next several days passed in a series of silent trekking and isolated conversations with Mithrandir. Legolas and Aragorn took turns conversing with the wizard, asking about his recent escapades. Gandalf asked Legolas about developments in Mirkwood, and Aragorn about the Dúnedain Rangers. Legolas managed to glean that this man, despite his youth, was Chieftain of the Dúnedain. Another interesting fact to file away, for he was beginning to see Aragorn was no ordinary man.

Several days later, they arrived at the southern parts of Mirkwood, and thus began the task of finding Rhosgobel, for Radagast’s dwelling was expertly hidden within the forest. The quirky wizard took great care to maintain his privacy and solitude, preferring the company of animals to those more alike to himself. Legolas had met him a few times, but had never visited his home. Only Gandalf had. After a few wrong turns and the wizard grousing over how thick the forest had grown since he’d last visited, they finally came across the ramshackle cottage constructed around the base of an ancient tree. Slanted walls and crooked roof panels formed the rather flimsy dwelling, mostly held together by creeping ivy and protruding tree roots. It was dark within.

Gandalf strode to the door and rapped the foot of his staff against it. No one responded.

Legolas peered between two slats, but could see or hear nothing moving about inside. Crouching down, he fingered the wilted leaves of some rosemary and thyme in an herb bed at the base of the cottage. “These have not been tended in a while.”

Gandalf’s shadow fell over him as he came to look. “It is as I feared. Radagast would never let his plants waste away like this; something must be wrong.”

Aragorn appeared from around the side of the house, having apparently gone to walk the perimeter. “I found sled tracks, several weeks old, but they were deep and there has been little weather to erode them. I can’t tell what pulled it though, for those have since faded.”

“Rhosgobel rabbits,” Gandalf supplied. “Light and swift of foot, and Radagast’s preferred mode of travel.” He reached a hand up to stroke his beard. “No sign of their return?”

Aragorn shook his head. “Not of large rabbits, though in the rear of the cottage there are signs of animals leaving the house: raccoons, foxes, even a hedgehog. Those were more recent.”

Gandalf frowned. “If the animals left to fend for themselves, then Radagast must not have been back here in quite some time.”

“My thoughts as well,” Aragorn said.

Legolas stood, sharing Gandalf’s growing worry that something had indeed befallen the Brown Wizard.

“I can follow the sled tracks,” Aragorn put in.

Legolas arched a brow. “You just said they were several weeks old.” It was probably pure chance the Ranger had stumbled upon them at all.

Aragorn’s mouth pursed with a confident moue. “I can follow them.”

Legolas had to work at holding back a disbelieving snort. Yet even if the Ranger was overconfident, it was still necessary to try.

“Then let us be off,” Gandalf interjected. “Lead the way, Aragorn.”

The man turned and headed east, deeper into the forest. As Gandalf and Legolas followed, the prince scanned the ground for the tracks the Dúnedan had spotted. It took several moments of trailing Aragorn before Legolas was able to distinguish the score marks in the dirt. They were faint, worn away in some places, and in others looked as though the sled had completely left the ground. Which was likely the case, as Aragorn pointed out when he picked up the trail again and showed them the deeper grooves where the sleigh had made a hard landing mid-run. Legolas had to admit the man’s skills were rather impressive. Now they just had to hope there was a wizard at the end of this chase.

* * *

 

The tracks left by the sleigh were difficult, but not impossible, to follow. Aragorn walked with his head bowed forward, eyes roving the ground. Broken twigs and creased leaves provided a trail, but it took some searching to find them in the mulch beneath the new growth that had pooled over to replace the damaged foliage. Aragorn was actually curious to meet this Radagast wizard, for it seemed he gave new meaning to the word ‘idiosyncratic.’ Honestly, who hitched large rabbits to a sled?

Gandalf and Legolas had spoken a bit about their interactions with the Brown Wizard, which led Aragorn to believe he was a gentle, whimsical soul who was often misunderstood.

He cast a glance over his shoulder at the pair behind him, specifically the elf. Elf _prince_ , he amended. That had been quite the startling revelation. Thranduil’s reputation was known far and wide, and was one of the reasons Aragorn had yet to explore Mirkwood, though he would like to someday. He had actually hoped Gandalf would take him when the wizard had gone to ask for aid from the woodland elves, but Gandalf had deemed it more efficient for Aragorn to handle some Dúnedain affairs before meeting up with him at the entrance to the Elf Path.

He had expected wood-elves to be haughty and arrogant—and his first encounter had certainly proven that assertion. But then Legolas had seemed to lighten up a bit, suggesting a mischievous spirit underneath that proud exterior. An image which was now colored with what Aragorn had heard about Legolas’s father, and he found himself constantly looking for similarities in the Greenwood Prince.

Dusk descended, draping a curtain of darkness over the forest, and they were forced to stop lest they lose the trail. Gandalf hobbled over to a large, smooth rock, and eased himself onto it. Setting his staff aside, he reached into his robes and withdrew a pipe. One utterance under his breath, and embers lit the contents.

Legolas eyed the pipe-weed with something akin to disdain, and suddenly declared, “I will make sure the area is clear of spiders.” In the next instant, he’d taken to the trees. Aragorn barely heard the leaves rustle as the lithe elf moved off with the grace and stealth of a specter. He briefly wondered if it was wise for Legolas to go off alone, but Gandalf seemed unbothered by it. This area of the forest wasn’t as gloomy as some of the other parts they’d traveled through on their way south, but it was best to be on guard.

Slinging his pack and quiver off his shoulder, Aragorn sat on the ground across from Gandalf and leaned back against an aspen. He pulled out his own pipe, along with a flint to light it the mundane way. A spark caught the dried leaves, and the woodsy scent of clove wafted up to fill his nostrils. It was amazing how quickly he’d developed a liking for smoking, considering he’d been raised among elves who found the habit distasteful. But after one year with the Dúnedain, Aragorn had taken to it, much to the dismay of his family in Rivendell.

As he puffed on the pipe, Aragorn strained his ears, but could pick up no sounds to suggest Legolas was nearby. Likely he would not return until the pipe-weed was gone, which Aragorn found somewhat amusing. And useful. He was not foolish enough to try having a private conversation with Gandalf around an elf’s keen hearing, but Legolas would probably scout a wide perimeter, just to be safe…

Aragorn cleared his throat. “When you said you were stopping in Mirkwood to ask an elf friend to assist us, you did not say it would be the _son_ of the Woodland King.”

Gandalf lifted his brows at the slightly accusatory tone. “I fail to see how that makes a difference.”

Aragorn cast a wary glance around the glade, but did not feel a prickle on the back of his neck to signal they were being watched. He was no elf, but he had been honing his senses almost as well as one. Still, Aragorn lowered his voice anyway. “It is rather difficult trying to conduct a search and possible rescue while balancing diplomatic protocol.”

Gandalf huffed, and lifted a small pestle to ground the top layer of herbs in his pipe. “Have you seen Legolas adhering to ‘protocol’?”

“I have seen him not say much at all,” Aragorn grumbled. “Though I don’t see how he has any right to be offended by anything _I_ may have done.”

“You are too busy worrying about how you will be perceived,” Gandalf admonished. “And I suspect Legolas may be just as concerned with making a good impression on you.”

Aragorn snorted, sending a burst of smoke out of his mouth.

Gandalf angled a forbearing look at him. “I would think you of all people would understand what it’s like to live in the shadow of your forebears.” Aragorn winced at that, but Gandalf continued, “Legolas is not his father. You should judge him based on his own actions, not the tall tales of Thranduil that precede him.”

Aragorn pursed his lips thoughtfully. He had not considered that, but looking back on that first day when he and the elf had exchanged quips at Gandalf’s expense…there had been an ease and rapport as though he were joking with one of his foster brothers. And it had only stopped once Gandalf let slip Legolas was the Prince of Mirkwood. So perhaps the stilted interaction was as much Aragorn’s fault as the elf’s—both of them afraid to broach a subject because of unfounded assumptions regarding the other.

Smoke billowed from his pipe with the rapid pace of his thoughts, and he and Gandalf remained silent from that point on. The shadows swelled and distended around them as night fell. They couldn’t risk kindling a fire, but the trees weren’t as close in this section of the forest, and light from a waxing gibbous moon now filtered down in a diluted aura.

Aragorn grew sleepy, and eventually put out his pipe, yet only once he heard the whisper of leaves above his head did he relax enough to close his eyes, knowing a wood-elf was keeping watch.


	3. Wayward Wizards

The next morning, Aragorn resumed following the old tracks of the sled. He’d gotten a sense of the rhythm in which Rhosgobel rabbits traveled—quick indeed—and so when the trail vanished, he knew how many paces to go ahead and search for additional signs. He was too focused on his task to give much thought to Gandalf’s words the previous night, or their elf companion, but it hovered on the edges of his cognizance, and whenever Aragorn did find a judgmental thought flitting through his mind, he attempted to banish it immediately. It didn’t help, though, that Legolas seemed a stoic sort, laconic and remote, but then, they all were under the circumstances.

Around mid-morning, the object of their search had been found, but not in a state they’d been hoping. The sleigh lay turned on its side in splintered pieces. The carcass of one rabbit, stripped to the bones, was still tangled in the harness. Wordlessly, the three spread out to search the bushes, but none of them found another body.

Gandalf leaned on his staff, shoulders drooping with the weight of worry and age. “This does not bode well.”

Aragorn silently agreed, and crouched down to study the surrounding earth. All he could glean was that the sled had come to a quick and abrupt stop, but the cause was a mystery to him. Shifting sideways, he peered at the dead rabbit. “I cannot tell what befell this creature,” he shared. “The carrion beasts have eaten too much to determine if it had been killed by a predator, or suffered from some type of accident.”

“Is there a new trail?” Gandalf asked.

Aragorn scanned the ground carefully, but any tracks that may have revealed what happened had been scuffed over by wolves. At the very least, Aragorn felt moderately confident that the Brown Wizard had not fallen victim to a wolf attack, for there would have been more blood and signs of carnage. “No,” he said regretfully, feeling as though he had failed his friend. Yes, his tracking skills had gotten them this far, but a dead end left them no better off than before, except they now knew for certain something terrible had happened.

“I do not see drag marks,” Aragorn added, hoping to alleviate some of Gandalf’s fear. The wizard’s eyes softened with appreciation for the effort, but they both knew that if Radagast had walked away from this, he should have made it home by now. And, from what Aragorn had learned of the Brown Wizard’s love for animals, Radagast would not have left this poor rabbit to scavengers.

Gandalf then turned to Legolas questioningly, and the prince lifted his gaze to the trees. Aragorn watched curiously as he stepped up to a trunk and pressed a palm to the coarse bark. The man’s brows rose sharply; he had made a joke about talking to squirrels, but was there truth to the tale that wood-elves actually could speak to trees? He threw a dubious look at Gandalf, who simply ignored him and waited patiently for Legolas.

The elf’s brows knitted together. “Radagast was tending this section of the forest, attempting to reverse some of the poisoning that has turned the trees dark.” Legolas cocked his head. “It was working too, but there is still hate and malice in their roots that is making conversing…difficult.” His voice was strained with a mixture of grief and frustration.

Aragorn tried not to gape, but he found the sight truly fascinating. In all his time with elves, none of the Ñoldor had possessed such ability. He eyed Legolas’s taut muscles with new consideration. What must it be like to have an affinity with such silent sentries, and for those beloved trees to slowly be turning dark and sinister? In that same vein, Aragorn could perhaps understand how King Thranduil might have become the cold and distrustful ruler everyone thought he was. The wood-elves’ home was slowly falling to Shadow, and yet they did not flee these shores, but resolutely continued fighting, even when it must often seem like a losing battle. There was honor in that, and Thranduil’s people deserved respect.

Aragorn wondered what Legolas would think if the elf prince learned of his true identity. His ancestor’s failure was one of the reasons the elves suffered as they did now. Would Legolas’s current detachment turn to bitter resentment and hatred if he knew Isildur’s heir was walking beneath his forest? Gandalf had not told Aragorn he needed to keep his heritage a secret from Legolas, but it was not a legacy he was comfortable bearing. Since leaving Rivendell ten years ago, he had much preferred to be simply a Ranger of the North.

He snapped his attention back into focus when Legolas jerked away from the tree, blue eyes flashing darkly.

“ _Yrch_ ,” the elf spat, and swept his gaze around the scene as though suddenly enlightened. “Orcs laid a trap to crash the sled.” Legolas moved back to the sleigh and knelt to pick apart a tangled clump of rope. Aragorn had assumed it was part of the harness or joint bindings, but now he noticed the odd weave pattern. Legolas stuck his fingers between the gaps and spread the hemp. The netting would have laid flat on the ground until yanked taut by waiting orcs. It was even possible the one rabbit had been caught in it and broken a leg. Aragorn silently chastised himself for missing that.

“What happened then?” Gandalf asked urgently.

Legolas straightened, eyes squinting. “The trees are upset. And confused. They are angry at both the orcs for tainting the forest, and the wizard for leaving them torn between conflicting emotions not yet healed.”

Aragorn eyed the beech he stood next to warily. All those tempestuous feelings were roiling around them at that moment? He wondered what it was like to have such clamorous voices in one’s head. A glance at Legolas’s thin mouth suggested it was not entirely pleasant, and he was beginning to hold a new regard for the Mirkwood Prince.

“Legolas?” Gandalf entreated gently, though with a trace of insistence.

The elf gave himself a small shake. “My apologies, Mithrandir. The retellings are distorted. Some of the trees are outraged that the orcs attacked Radagast; others are…glad.” Legolas’s jaw tightened with the admission, as though it were a personal failing on his part. “But they all say he was taken captive.”

Gandalf’s expression turned grim. “They would have taken him to Dol Guldur in that case.”

A muscle in Legolas’s cheek ticked. “That fortress is overrun with orcs, and currently ruled by the Nazgûl.”

“I know,” Gandalf sighed. He shuffled his feet, face pinching with worry, and then muttered to himself, “What would the Enemy want with him? He’s not exactly counted among the great wizards.”

“Perhaps he never made it to Dol Guldur,” Aragorn suggested. “He may have escaped, but is injured or stranded and in need of assistance.” Aragorn knew how dangerous the Hill of Dark Sorcery was, for many reasons, but he would not let it intimidate him.

Gandalf appeared thoughtful. “It is less than a day’s journey from here. It might be prudent to at least see if we can pick up a clear trail.”

Aragorn nodded eagerly, though noted that Legolas looked tense. Yet the elf voiced no protest, and so the three of them began a trek south toward the Enemy’s stronghold.

* * *

 

Gandalf’s mind was awhirl with questions and worry. Why had the Enemy gone to the trouble of capturing Radagast? The quirky wizard held no secrets or inner knowledge of realms that would stand against the Dark Lord’s return to power. And while Radagast was resisting the growing Shadow in his own right, tending animals and restoring a few trees hardly seemed worth Sauron’s notice.

Gandalf was now doubting bringing Aragorn and Legolas along, for he had not expected this task to lead into the Enemy’s dark fortress. At least their meeting had gone well enough, and despite the uncertainty they held for one another, Gandalf was pleased with the results. Given time, he imagined the two could become good friends. But this quest, meant to give them such an opportunity, was quickly turning more dangerous.

The trees thinned and opened up into a small clearing on the edge of an escarpment. Below the cliff face, thorny brambles ran amok in massive bundles as tall as spruce and maple. Patches of wispy spider webs clung to sections of thorns that created a thick, briar maze leading up to the bridge at the base of Dol Guldur. The stronghold rose up on the hill of Amon Lanc, stone spires jaggedly pointed toward a bleak sky. The sun never pierced the pewter cloud cover that forever enshrouded this part of the forest, as though even the light feared to show itself to the evil lurking within.

Gandalf had been there twice before, when Sauron himself had been in residence under the guise of the Necromancer. The first had been when he found Thráin, dying in the dungeons, and took possession of the map and key that would later send Thorin on the quest to reclaim Erebor. The second time, Gandalf himself had been imprisoned before the White Council arrived to banish Sauron. It had not been a pleasant experience, which was why Gandalf could not leave Radagast there to suffer. The wizard was too meek of heart to endure torture for long. Not that Radagast would ever join Sauron; Gandalf had no fear of that. But the harsh treatment and suffering would utterly break him.

He turned toward his companions, both of whose complexions seemed to have paled slightly in sight of the fortress. The place’s foul aura extended outward with invisible fingers, weaving its malignant strokes through air, water, and soil, defiling everything it touched. Gandalf felt it, but possessed a bit more resistance.

“You two wait here while I go in and search the fortress.”

Two gazes sharpened on him at once. “You can’t go alone,” Aragorn spoke first, and Legolas was not far behind.

“Mithrandir, I share your concern for Radagast, but you cannot make an incursion into that place.”

Gandalf held back a sigh. While their care was touching, sometimes he felt as though everyone took him for nothing more than a conjurer of cheap tricks, when he was in fact the _second_ in the Order of _Wizards_. “I’ve snuck in and out of Dol Guldur before,” he said somewhat testily. “I will be fine.” They didn’t need to know how close the last time had been…

“We should go with you, at least,” Aragorn persisted.

Gandalf arched a meaningful brow at the Ranger. Aragorn was the _last_ person who needed to set foot in that place. The Prince of Mirkwood didn’t belong there either. “I appreciate your willingness, Aragorn, but secrecy is our ally here, and one may travel more covertly than three. Wait for me here.” He turned to head down, but paused. “Though, if I am not back by tomorrow morning, you and Legolas should depart immediately.”

Both man and elf gave him stern looks of disapproval, which Gandalf ignored. He did not have time to argue with them further, for he could only imagine what horrors were befalling Radagast at that moment. He also tried not to think of the likelihood Aragorn and Legolas would obey his command. If they knew what was good for them…but that was questionable. Suddenly the idea of leaving those two alone together seemed most unwise. But he could not turn back now.

Gandalf backtracked a short distance before winding his way around to the base of the scarp and labyrinth of briars. Their giant thorns curved like talons begging for flesh to rend and tear, and the narrow path burrowing through them felt as though he was walking into the open maw of a dragon. Gandalf gripped his staff tightly. This would be a simple task, nothing he hadn’t done before. And yet, a prickle of foreboding raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

He skirted around the bridge, navigating his way through sharp rocks and broken stone, a graveyard chronicling the erosion of time. As he approached the fortress, Gandalf noted it seemed unusually quiet. Where were the orcs that currently resided in this dark place? Out patrolling, perhaps? Gandalf sent a brief prayer to the Valar that Aragorn and Legolas would remain undiscovered if that was the case. Perhaps Radagast was not even here, or had escaped, as Aragorn suggested, and the patrols of Dol Guldur were currently out searching for their lost prize. It wouldn’t hurt to check the prison cells though, since he was here.

Masonry that had withstood millennia crumbled in places with ruin and decay. Orcs were not kind to their dwellings, nor could anything remain pristine under the foul breath of evil. Thorns clawed their way up pillars, gouging scratches in the stone. Some sections of the fortress floor had even corroded into gaps that looked down into an abyss of inky darkness and floating mist. Dead, rotted out tree trunks lay splintered here and there like fossilized husks.

Gandalf’s robes swished softly through the dust, the only other sound being the increasing pounding of his own heart. There were many layers to the stronghold, including pits deep within the bowels of Dol Guldur, and high narrow towers. The stillness of the place reminded Gandalf of the trap he’d walked into twenty years ago. He’d done that intentionally at the time, knowing there was no other way to convince the White Council to take action against the Necromancer. Now, however, an assault on the dark fortress would be costly, which meant there would be no rescue for Radagast if Gandalf did not succeed on his own.

He moved cautiously under an arch and into a courtyard, careful to step around dried twigs lying like finger bones across the ground. Casting his senses out, the wizard tested the air, searching for a spell of concealment, though there was no reason for the occupants of Dol Guldur to implement one. The Enemy had openly declared himself and reclaimed his once great stronghold, fortifying his positions throughout Middle-earth in anticipation of war. War that was on the horizon. Gandalf pursed his lips—no curtain of power reverberated back to him, though malevolent susurrations whispered along the edges of his mind.

He had made it to the center of the stronghold and the entrance to the prison cells where he had found Thráin those many years ago, when a foul burst of fetid breath billowed from the tower entrance. The cloying fume clogged his mouth and nose, causing him to stagger back with a choked cough. Gandalf raised his staff in preparation for defense, but an invisible force slammed into him, knocking the oxygen from his lungs as he was propelled into the wall. Pain lanced through him from the jarring impact, and then he hit the ground with another heavy thud. Something icy slithered down his spine, a presence Gandalf recognized all too well, to his growing alarm.

He tried to thrust his staff outward with a surge of power, but felt it get wrenched from his grip. Gandalf gasped in dismay, now powerless. Pushing himself onto his elbows, he lifted his head and froze as a black-cloaked figure stepped out from the darkened doorway. Iron boots made his steps heavy, despite the incorporeal form Gandalf knew lay underneath the hooded fabric. Slowly, the apparition bent down and picked up the staff in metal-plated fingers. To Gandalf’s horror, he spotted Radagast’s staff in the Nazgûl’s other hand.

“ _Welcome, wizard,_ ” the accursed being hissed.

Gandalf’s blood ran cold. He recognized the vile creature before him. Khamûl. Second in command to the Witch-King of Angmar, and ruling leader of Dol Guldur.

Gandalf attempted to rise, but the Nazgûl jabbed both staffs forward, and an invisible wave of energy punched the air from his chest again, leaving him winded. Blackness encroached on the edges of his vision, even as he fought against it. Another blow struck him, and the last thing Gandalf heard as unconsciousness took him was a sinister, hair-raising snicker.


	4. The Beginnings of Kinship

Legolas stood on the edge of the escarpment, keen eyes tracing the gray-clad figure that moved like a ghost among the dreary and dead vegetation below. Nothing about this felt right, but what could he do? Gandalf was quite stubborn, as firm as the roots of a four-hundred year old giant sequoia; he would not be moved in matters he had set his mind to. It used to impress Legolas whenever such staunchness was wielded against his father, who was equally unbending in his own right. Now, however, Legolas lamented the wizard’s audacity.

Aragorn seemed just as discontent after Gandalf left, and had been pacing for the past several minutes. “I’m going to check the perimeter,” the Dúnedan finally declared, and strode off into the trees.

Legolas did not try to convince him to stay. He probably would have done the same if he weren’t currently watching a valued friend march straight into the Enemy’s stronghold. _Gandalf is a great wizard_ , he reminded himself. Still, as the spectral shape shrouded in mist vanished amidst the thorns and cobwebs, Legolas felt a pressure building in his chest. There was little he could do at this point, save one thing. Softly, Legolas began to sing.

The elvish words fell like crystalline chimes, uttered low so that only the wind would carry their significance to the intended recipient. He sang a verse of protection and blessing for Mithrandir, and while his heart craved sun and stars to banish the sense of foreboding hanging over this dreadful place, the melody yet managed to bring him some comfort. Perhaps the Valar would hear his prayer and deliver Gandalf _and_ Radagast back safely.

A twig snapped behind him, and Legolas cut off mid-note with a whirl, only to find Aragorn emerging from the woods. He lowered his arm from halfway reaching for his dagger, and scowled. It was beginning to annoy him how silently that Ranger moved. Too much like an elf.

Aragorn looked slightly abashed. “ _Goheno nin_ ,” he begged forgiveness. “ _I ‘lîr gîn ni phrestant_.”

Legolas tried to release his tension; it was generous for the man to say the song moved him, and once again, Aragorn’s fluency in the elvish tongue caught Legolas off guard.

“Gandalf truly is a close friend, isn’t he?” Aragorn continued in Westron.

Legolas’s shoulders tightened again as memories from long ago began to bubble up, and it took him a moment to center himself. “He has seen me through some very difficult times. Always he has provided a listening ear and wise counsel when asked for.” His lips twitched. “And when not asked for. But when he does badger, it is with my best interests at heart.”

The Dúnedan’s mouth pursed in shared amusement. “Aye, that is Gandalf. Though I have not known him as long as you, I feel as though he is a dear friend, one whom I trust implicitly.” There was something in Aragorn’s tone that made Legolas wonder if the man did not have many he could say that of. The Ranger crossed his arms and tossed a dark look out toward Amon Lanc. “Though in this instance, I think the wizard is acting incredibly foolish.”

Legolas almost laughed. It was not the first time he’d heard Gandalf called such—or much worse—yet the note of exasperated endearment in the man’s voice bespoke genuine concern for Gandalf’s well-being, something Legolas felt as well.

“We should have gone with him,” Aragorn continued.

Legolas frowned. “Of all who have entered Dol Guldur, only Gandalf has ever returned.”

“How many have there been to compare to?” Aragorn retorted flippantly. It made Legolas’s blood simultaneously burn with indignation and freeze with the assaulted memory the words triggered. He swallowed hard.

“Elves have been taken before,” he began, straining to keep his tone measured. “Only one made it back to us, but…” Aragorn had turned attentive eyes toward him, and Legolas had to look away. “He was so tortured and ruined that he could not even bear to sail, but took his own life.”

The incident had only happened ten years ago, when Dol Guldur had first been retaken by the Nazgûl. Several elves had disappeared, stolen away to that dark fortress never to be seen again. The one who had escaped…well, perhaps that had been a device of the Enemy, for the stark visual of what befell those who were captured had shaken every elf to their core. It had been yet another defeat that drove them further north, decreasing their patrols south for fear that more would be taken. And if in the future any elf was being dragged off during an ambush, well…the unspeakable act of kinslaying had begun to seem like the lesser evil. Sauron certainly knew how to strike at the heart of the elves.

Legolas glanced back after several moments of silence, and was somewhat surprised to find Aragorn’s expression apologetic.

“I’m sorry, I did not mean to degrade the sacrifices your people have made in fighting a war that has gone on long since before I was born.”

Legolas shrugged. “It is different for elves.” He could not explain it, how the Firstborn were beings of light, immortal and meant to walk Arda for eternity, or until the sea called them home. The Shadow they fought, the Shadow that claimed so many of their lives…it corrupted everything it touched, everything his people cherished and embodied.

“I know,” Aragorn said simply, softly, and perhaps he did, for he was more acquainted with elves and their ways than most mortals. What must it have been like to grow up among another race, away from his own kind? In a realm protected from the evils in the world, no less.

“Is your lack of fear in the shadow of this place bravery, or because you don’t know any better?” Legolas nearly bit his tongue; again, his words had come across more caustic than he’d meant.

Aragorn regarded him thoughtfully, however, as though he sensed the true intent behind the question. “While Rivendell was a safe haven from the growing darkness, I have spent the past ten years wandering the wilds and the lands of Eriador. There is no place the Shadow has not begun to touch. It is a fight all share, and one that I am proud to take up. As for not possessing fear…” He flicked his gaze toward the jagged spires and began pacing again. “It _is_ fear that drives me to stand here and face that wretched place. Fear for Gandalf, for Radagast, and for what destruction the Enemy will wreak if he goes unchallenged.”

Legolas watched the man’s agitated steps, and felt something like the beginnings of kinship stir in his heart. Though young, this Dúnedain Ranger possessed the spirit of a warrior, and the conviction of a true believer. The only thing he lacked was wisdom and experience that came with age, which Legolas could hardly fault him for.

“Then we are in accord,” he said as a peace offering.

Aragorn ceased wearing a tread in the earth, and gazed back at him. With a nod of acceptance, both their eyes turned toward the fortress, their thoughts on their friend somewhere inside.

* * *

 

It had been a few hours since Gandalf left them, and Aragorn was growing restless. He could not tell the time with no sun to track across the sky, and this place was heavy with a gloomy brume that threatened to suffocate his spirit. Legolas must have been feeling it more poignantly, for the elf had begun fidgeting and flitting from tree to tree. Aragorn wondered if he was speaking to them, though knowing how close they were to Dol Guldur, and therefore tainted by its evil, he doubted that was a conversation a wood-elf wanted to have. Still, the oppressive weight must be twice as hard to bear for one of the Firstborn, who drank in sunlight as a mortal did water.

“Have you ever heard of the Shire?” Aragorn asked in an attempt to distract the elf.

Legolas jerked his attention away from the elm he was currently inspecting. “What?”

“A small realm in Eriador,” he continued conversationally. “And home to a quaint little race known as hobbits.”

Legolas blinked at him for a moment. “Hobbits?” he repeated.

Aragorn uncrossed his legs from where he was sitting on the ground. “Charming creatures, like children, really, in both appearance and character.” His tone turned somewhat wistful. “Perhaps the last mark of innocence in Middle-earth. Anyway, it was near their borders where I first met Gandalf. I’d said I’d come upon him, though in truth, I think he had been looking for me when the squirrel distracted him.”

Legolas drew away from the tree and came to stand closer. “Not that I don’t doubt Gandalf’s ability to scheme, but why do you think so?”

“The Dúnedain primarily wander the wilds, protecting the realm where we can,” Aragorn replied. “Gandalf made the request that we give particular attention to the Shire. I think he has a soft spot for those that dwell there.”

Legolas canted his head thoughtfully. “I think he is fond of one hobbit in particular, though I don’t know if he would still be alive.”

Aragorn’s eyes widened. “You mean Bilbo? Of course, Thorin’s party traveled through your halls. Did you meet him?”

“Not formally. He was not with the dwarves when we took them into custody. The only time I caught a glimpse of him was stuck in a barrel bobbing down the river.”

Aragorn laughed. “Well, I am pleased to say the old rascal is still alive and well, and quite enjoys telling that story.”

Legolas’s brow furrowed, but then a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I admit, the incident was not amusing at the time. My father was furious, and the guards were severely punished. But looking back…” Mirth danced in the elf’s eyes. “The sight of thirteen dwarves and a hobbit riding barrels down the river _is_ rather comical.”

Aragorn grinned. “It’s nice to see your highness has a sense of humor.”

Legolas looked away, and Aragorn regretted the light jibe. “You’ve heard of my father,” the prince said somewhat stiffly.

“Yes,” Aragorn admitted. “Though, I would like to think that in these past few days, I’ve gained a better understanding of Thranduil and his people.” He let a pause hang in the air for a moment. “Sometimes reputations are a first line of defense.”

Legolas met his gaze once more, a flicker of surprise on his face.

Aragorn rolled his shoulder as an uncomfortable question balanced on the tip of his tongue. “You must have some preconceived notions about the race of men…especially since it was a man’s fault Sauron survived and your home is what it is now.” He wanted to duck his head, either in hidden shame or to avoid whatever look of contempt would contort the elf’s expression, yet the answer was important to him, and so Aragorn held as still as he could, features schooled to the best of his ability.

Legolas quirked a confused brow instead. “You think I would hate an entire race for one person’s failing?”

Aragorn shifted awkwardly under the scrutiny. “Well, I’ve heard of your…dislike, for dwarves.”

The prince frowned. “That is more complicated. As for men, no, I do not hold them all at fault for one man’s weakness.”

“And if that weakness is passed on to others?”

Legolas’s mien turned ruminative. “Weakness is not a disposition; it is a choice. A hard one, yes, just as the decision to be brave is not the propensity to banish fear, but to stand in the face of it and not turn away.”

Aragorn leaned against the rock at his back, a small smile relaxing his tension. “I see Gandalf is not the only one with wisdom.”

Legolas smirked, but then suddenly jerked ramrod straight, both hands shooting up to unsling his bow and nock an arrow. Aragorn scrambled to his feet, grasping the hilt of his sword.

“What is it?” he asked in barely above a whisper. An uneasy feeling crept up his spine, even as he hoped it would be two wizards emerging from the lengthening shadows.

Legolas appeared to listen for a moment longer, and then hissed sharply, “Orcs!”

Aragorn’s sword slid smoothly from its scabbard, just as the sounds of heavy boots began filtering through the trees. A glance over his shoulder reminded the Ranger of their precarious position with the cliff at their backs. Tightening his grip, he raised his blade in a ready stance. Maybe the orcs would pass them by on their way to the stronghold…

A snarl and shout dashed that hope, and a second later Legolas’s bow twanged. The arrow zinged between the trees and out of sight, but Aragorn knew it struck true when a gurgled cry echoed in response. The orcs appeared then, stunted creatures lumbering like hunched primates with clubs and rusted iron blades in hand. Legolas’s bow began to sing, dropping orcs with a speed and efficiency Aragorn could only spare a brief moment to appreciate before he charged forward.

Metal collided with a grating screech, punctuated by the roar of rapacious beasts. Aragorn parried a blow and swung his sword up and under, cutting an orc from naval to shoulder. He ducked as an axe swiped toward his neck, and followed through with a thrust to the orc’s stomach. A whoosh of air fluttered by his ear, startling him. The orc to his right suddenly had an arrow protruding from its throat, and fell backward. Aragorn whipped his gaze to Legolas, who was being forced to use his bow as a bludgeoning instrument as the fighting became close.

Aragorn cut down two more orcs, and then found himself facing an abnormally large brute. Yellow teeth dripping with saliva stood out starkly in the orc’s leering maw, and a puff of putrid breath billowed forth, close enough to make Aragorn’s eyes water. He brandished his blade, which the orc met midair. The force of the impact reverberated down Aragorn’s arm to his shoulder with a painful jar. He stumbled back a step, the scarp’s edge now in his peripheral vision.

With their swords crossed, the orc swung a punch toward Aragorn’s head, and he dropped to the ground. The orc’s rusted weapon slid down and nearly grazed his knuckles, but Aragorn managed to wrench away at the last moment. He slashed at the brute’s back legs, eliciting a howl as blade sliced through muscle. The orc fell to his knees with a heavy thud, which unfortunately put him back on the same level with Aragorn. Enraged from pain, the orc abandoned its sword in favor of grabbing the Ranger by his jerkin. Aragorn’s own sword was too long to get the right angle to stab, and so he ended up wrestling with the beast. He landed a punch, took one to the gut, delivered another right hook…unmindful of how close he was getting to the cliff.

With a grunt, Aragorn managed to get his knees up and bucked. The orc’s weight lifted off him and flung to the side—right over the edge. But the momentum and the brute’s grip on Aragorn’s arm dragged him along, and he rolled far enough for the ground to suddenly disappear. His hands scrabbled to catch on the precipice, his body slamming against the rock face.

A hand latched around his arm, nearly dislocating his elbow, and Aragorn found himself staring up at Legolas as he dangled from the elf’s hold. The prince was on his stomach, partially extended over the edge and face scrunched in strain. Aragorn tried to calm his wildly beating heart and collect himself so he could climb up, but then Legolas craned his neck to look behind him, and Aragorn’s stomach plummeted. The muffled sounds of more charging orcs rose from above.

Legolas looked back at him, and Aragorn wanted to shout for the elf to just let go, even as the idea of falling and impaling himself on the thorns below terrified him. Before he could get a word past his tightening throat, Legolas pushed himself over the edge. Wind rushed up around Aragorn, nearly stealing a yelp from his lips. Then his feet hit solid earth with enough force for gravity to bring him to his knees. Something thumped beside him, and then hands were grabbing his shoulders and yanking him back against the sheer rock of the unseen ledge.

Too bewildered to make a sound, Aragorn glanced back to find Legolas pressed against the cliff side, head angled up intently. Blood rushing in his ears made it difficult to hear what was happening, so Aragorn forced himself to take deep, steady breaths, in through his nose, out his mouth. His pulse gradually ceased its pounding, and then he was able to distinguish the guttural noises of orcs, only ten feet above his head.

“Where are they? I can’t see ‘em!”

Another snorted. “Elves would rather die than be taken alive. They’re somewhere in the briars, shredded to pieces likely.”

“The master will want proof.”

“Then you go after ‘em!”

Aragorn flicked his gaze to Legolas, who held himself perfectly still. The day had already begun to wane, and so they were shadowed on the ledge as darkness swelled from the nooks and crevices.

“Khamûl has his wizards,” another grunted. “He’ll be too pleased with those prizes to care about one elf and man.”

Aragorn’s eyes widened. Gandalf had been captured?

Legolas’s mouth nearly disappeared in a tight line. The orcs grumbled for a few more moments, and then it sounded as though they were moving off. Aragorn watched Legolas, knowing the elf’s senses were better attuned to determine when it was safe to move. After a little longer, he finally sagged against the cliff side, a signal for Aragorn to slump in relief as well.

Taking a deep breath, Legolas began roving his gaze over the ledge and rock face, presumably searching for a way to climb back up.

“Not that I’m not immensely grateful,” Aragorn said, keeping his voice low just in case. “But that was a rather foolish move, don’t you think?”

Legolas glanced at him. “You mean intentionally throwing myself off a cliff?”

Aragorn nearly laughed from delirium at the close call. “Yes, that.”

“I knew we would make it to the ledge.” The elf turned back to running his hands over the grooves in the rock.

Aragorn rolled his eyes. “Well, _le_ _hannon_ ,” he said in thanks.

Legolas paused long enough to incline his head in acknowledgement. Aragorn started searching for places to provide good purchase as well, and after twenty minutes, in which it had grown extremely dark with nightfall, they finally found a root system sticking out of rock that would aid their climb. Legolas went first, for scaling the cliff side would be easier for him. Once he was at the top, he turned to help pull Aragorn up the rest of the way.

While part of Aragorn wanted to collapse on good, solid grass, they now had an urgent task before them. He retrieved his sword where it had thankfully been left on the ground, and Legolas moved among the orc corpses, plucking out arrows he could reuse. Though night blanketed Mirkwood with a cold, eerie mantle, a full moon somewhere above the ever-present clouds suffused pale light throughout the sky in a waxen aura, so he was not completely blind.

Aragorn cleaned his blade and sheathed it, then sighed. “As much as I hate it, we should probably wait until morning to commence with a rescue mission.” Finding their way to the fortress would be difficult enough, not to mention navigating its treacherous twists and turns.

Legolas slipped his last arrow back in his quiver and turned to face the Ranger, shoulders taut with tension. “If I thought my father would give me a contingent of elves to return with, I would suggest returning to the palace first.” He lifted his chin. “But since that would never happen, I agree. The cover of night would offer us concealment, but present too many other dangers. We should move from this place though, before the carrion attracts spiders.”

Aragorn swept his gaze around the dark lumps, and swallowed hard. He had not yet encountered a giant spider, and was not keen to do so now. He started forward, but hesitated when he noted the haunted look Legolas cast toward the fortress. Perhaps Aragorn’s fear _was_ less because he didn’t know any better. But it would not stop him. Nor, did it seem, that it would stop Legolas either.

_Hold on, Gandalf_ , Aragorn silently pleaded, as he and the elf strode away from the battle scene to prepare for what awaited them the following morning.


	5. The Hill of Dark Sorcery

Gandalf came to with a start, and bumped his head on something cold and metallic. Biting back a grunt, he reached up to rub his temple, only to feel his wrists weighted down with similar hard material. He gave his arms a light shake and heard the unmistakeable clank of chains. Oh, wasn’t this just _dandy_. Gandalf squinted in the darkness, which was only partially diffused with an orange glow filtering across a dusty stone floor from an adjoining corridor. Still, he was able to make out thin vertical bars arcing up around him into a dome shape above his head.

“We’ve been here before,” he muttered to himself. The iron bird cage was not something he’d ever wanted to make a habit of. Gandalf tried to shift his position, for his old bones did not appreciate being crammed into the small space, but there was not enough room. He slumped back with a sigh. In terms of trouble, he was in it quite deep this time.

Something creaked to his left, followed by a soft, frail voice. “G-andalf?”

“Radagast!” Gandalf twisted around as best he could, and found his old friend locked in an identical cage. Radagast’s face was pale and gaunt under his bushy beard, and his wrists so bony the shackles clamped around them looked as though they could fall off any moment.

“Are you…?” Radagast stammered. “Ah, you’re an apparition. Something my mind conjured to pass the time. It’s quite lonely here, you know.” Radagast lifted one shaky hand to scratch his head, eyes drifting up as though searching for those birds he liked to let roost under his hat.

Gandalf’s heart fell. He had been hoping the wizard’s spirit would still be whole when found, but by the state Radagast was in, it appeared he had been imprisoned here for many weeks. Who knew what he had endured in that time. “My friend, I am truly here,” he spoke soothingly, as he would to a frightened animal. “I came to rescue you.”

“Oh.” Radagast tilted his head. “It doesn’t seem to be going well.”

Gandalf held back a sigh. Perhaps the wizard was merely more addled than usual, and would recover if they got away from this place. Gandalf certainly hoped so. But that left them with the very tricky problem of _how_ to escape. By the darkness simmering in the corners of this chamber, it was probably night outside. Which meant he would not make it back to Legolas and Aragorn by morning. And what were the chances those two would obey his command to leave? Gandalf snorted; he really needed to find a way out before then.

“What does the Enemy want with you?” he asked Radagast while trying to wrack his brain for a plan.

“Hm?” Radagast blinked at him. “Gandalf, have you seen my hat? I seem to have misplaced it. Twitter and Flitter will be very disappointed if I don’t get it back.”

Gandalf didn’t know whether to be grief-stricken or exasperated. “I will get you a new one. Now please, Radagast, I need you to focus. Why did the Enemy go to the trouble of laying a trap for you? What do they want?”

Radagast’s brows knitted together with intense concentration, and it was a long moment before he answered. “I don’t know.”

Gandalf frowned, wondering whether some foul sorcery had been used on the poor wizard’s mind. But for what purpose? He shook the bars of his cage and tugged at the manacles, all to no avail.

“Gandalf? Is help coming?”

Gandalf’s shoulders sagged. “I believe so,” he admitted. The question was whether the rescuers would end up needing rescue themselves. _Like you do?_ he thought grumpily.

A fell aura filled the room then, creeping in like a fetid fume that sent a chill down Gandalf’s spine. The torch outside flickered and dimmed as though cowed by the oppressive presence of the newcomer. Gandalf stiffened, and Radagast made a small whimpering sound in the back of his throat. Heavy footsteps scuffed across the stone floor as a cloaked figure entered. Khamûl’s wraith form was hidden under his robes, only defined by the hood silhouetting his face and the gloves on his hands. Two orcs twitched and gnashed their teeth behind him.

Though the Nazgûl’s visage was incorporeal, Gandalf could feel the way Khamûl sneered at him. “ _We knew you would come to the Brown Wizard’s aid, Gandalf the Grey._ ” The sibilating voice slithered over Gandalf’s skin, making him shiver. More than that though, the cold he suddenly felt had nothing to do with the Black Breath wafting in his face. Had all of this been about _him_?

Khamûl walked up to Radagast’s cage and ran iron-plated fingertips across the bars. _Click, clack, click_. Radagast flinched.

Gandalf bristled, and drew himself up as best he could in his own cramped coop. “What do you want?”

The shadowed face slowly turned toward him. “ _My master wants what is his._ ” Khamûl glided up to Gandalf, and the wizard held his breath so as not to shudder under the cloying aura. “ _Where is it?_ ”

For a moment, Gandalf stared dumbly at the Ringwraith. Did Sauron truly think _he_ knew where to find the One Ring? He couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped his lips at that. “Even if I did know where it was, which I don’t, I would not tell you.”

Khamûl snickered in return. “ _Your insolence is amusing, wizard. Look where you are._ ”

“I cannot tell you what I do not know.”

“ _Hm._ ” The Nazgûl began to stalk around the cage, and Gandalf was unable to twist enough to keep him fully in sight. “ _Perhaps you do not know._ ” Khamûl inhaled deeply, a rasping wheeze that rattled the physical accoutrements holding his insubstantial form. “ _Let us speak of another matter then—the identity of Isildur’s heir._ ”

Gandalf’s blood seemed to freeze in his veins. “The line of Kings?” he said, feigning an air of mild interest. “Last I heard it had been broken.”

“ _Do not take my master for a fool,_ ” Khamûl spat. He swept back around to the front, jostling the cage. “ _Arathorn had a child. What is his name?_ ”

Oh, Gandalf was dearly regretting bringing Aragorn to Mirkwood now. _By the Valar, make that brash young Ranger leave by dawn_ , he prayed.

“You ask questions to which I have no answers,” Gandalf huffed in response.

A hiss issued from beneath Khamûl’s hood, carrying a mixture of vexation and sinister eagerness. The wraith took a step back, spreading his arms to the side. One of the orcs waiting in the passage shuffled in, bearing Gandalf’s staff, and placed it in the Nazgûl’s hand. Gandalf tensed. Only one of the Istari could wield a staff to its full potential, but that did not mean others of great power couldn’t use them to channel their own sorcery. And as the first words uttered in the Black Speech fell from Khamûl’s tongue, Gandalf’s fears were confirmed.

Icy tendrils brushed along the periphery of his mind, only to plunge inward a second later. Gandalf gasped, and immediately poured his energy into throwing up a mental wall. Khamûl chanted louder, more forcefully, until it felt as though a battering ram was hammering repeatedly at Gandalf’s skull. He did not waver, however. While maintaining his initial barrier, he surreptitiously gathered all his knowledge and thoughts of Aragorn, and sealed them in a separate location deep within the recesses of his mind.

His outer shield wobbled under another powerful attack, and Gandalf gritted his teeth as he fought against the mental invasion. He could not say how long the battle of wills lasted—minutes, hours. It became a rhythm of receding and regaining ground, each possessing moments of advantage over the other, resulting in a stalemate.

But at long last, the invasive pressure vanished, and Khamûl staggered back a step. Gandalf nearly doubled over in exhaustion, but managed to lift his unsteady gaze to the Nazgûl in clear triumph and defiance.

Khamûl snarled at him. “ _Let’s see how resilient you are after a few rounds of more physical_ persuasions _._ ”

Behind him, the two orcs who’d been waiting patiently broke into mad grins.

* * *

 

Morning rose like a pale, ghostly moon above the hill of Amon Lanc, and gradually the blackness of night settled into crevices and corners to simmer restlessly. Aragorn and Legolas stood under the cover of the tree line, looking out at the maze of briars that would lead into the heart of darkness. Neither knew what they would find.

“ _Húrin?_ ” Aragorn asked quietly.

Legolas gave a measured nod, confirming he was ready. “My father will have my head when he hears about this,” the elf muttered.

The corner of Aragorn’s mouth twitched upward. “I can’t say my foster father would approve of this either.”

“At least Imladris does not have dungeons.”

He couldn’t help a small smile. “True. Let us go then. I know two wizards who are probably eager to make their departure.”

They left the relative safety of the trees and carefully made their way through the thorny briars, an arrow notched in the elf’s bow and ready to fire at a moment’s notice. Aragorn had seen the webs coating the brambles, and hoped they would not stumble upon a nest. Unlike Gandalf, neither of them knew the best route to sneak into Dol Guldur, and so their progress was slow, pausing often to evaluate each angle as they drew closer and closer to the dark fortress.

The air seemed to thicken with a noxious fume, something that pervaded not only Aragorn’s mouth and nose, but seeped into his very marrow. He shuddered repeatedly under the fell chill that pierced his jerkin, as though some invisible phantom were dogging his steps and breathing down his neck. Legolas, too, looked wan, his pale hair and skin taking on an almost translucent hue. This place was unhealthy for anyone.

Yet because none were foolish enough to enter Dol Guldur willingly—save one particular man, elf, and wizard—the bridge and gate were left unguarded. Walking through the front door seemed a great risk, but so was trying to navigate the labyrinth of giant barbs at the base of the hill in search of a place to climb.

Aragorn and Legolas crouched behind a large rock and watched the bridge for several minutes. Nothing moved within the immediate courtyard beyond the entrance. In fact, there was not even an actual gate or portcullis, only broken and rusted chunks of iron lying in a pile to the side. Again, no one was brash enough to lay siege to this place.

“If we come upon any orcs, we must kill them quickly and as quietly as possible,” Legolas whispered.

Aragorn nodded in consensus; stealth was needed until the very end if they were to have any hope of success. Taking a deep breath to steel his nerves, Aragorn crept from behind the rock and sprinted across the bridge. He pressed himself against one side of the archway, Legolas right behind him, and peeked into the inner quad. It was empty.

Slinking around the corner, Aragorn and Legolas slipped inside. Some shadows moved between corridors on the opposite side of the courtyard, and the two carefully skirted the edge of the wall to remain out of sight. Aragorn cast a wary glance at one of the clefts in the ground as he passed. A few granules crumbled loose to tinkle down into the abyss, and Aragorn gave the brink a wider berth. He’d had enough of cliffs recently.

A few snorts and scuffing footsteps brought them both to an abrupt halt, muscles poised for an attack. Legolas drew back his bowstring and jerked his head for Aragorn to move to the edge of the granite juncture. He did as directed, sword raised against his shoulder and ears strained to detect exactly where the orcs were positioned. Legolas blended with the drab surroundings like a statue, and so when the two orcs emerged into the quad, it took them a moment to notice what didn’t belong. It was long enough. The bow twanged with a small zing just as Aragorn brought his blade out and horizontal. One orc fell from an arrow between the eyes while the second toppled from a sliced jugular. Neither made a sound except for the thump of hitting the ground.

Legolas tilted his head as though listening, and after a minute nodded. Aragorn angled a considering look at the bodies. If they were found, that would ruin the element of surprise. He met Legolas’s gaze and thrust his chin toward one of the fissures, brows lifted in question. The prince appeared to give it some thought, perhaps weighing the risk of someone hearing two corpses bouncing off the rocks, but then nodded in agreement. Better than leave them to be found.

Legolas yanked his arrow out of the first orc, and then he and Aragorn hefted the body up and tossed it into the chasm. They repeated the process with the second, and thankfully no sound could be heard as the void swallowed the offerings whole. Then they turned and ventured into the decrepit passage.

It led to another inner courtyard. Well, actually it looked as though the space had once been a great chamber, but the roof had long since collapsed, leaving brittle blocks of stone across the floor. Aragorn tried to step lightly, but even so, some fragments still crunched under his boots. The distant clamor of orc voices and brawling filtered closer the deeper they went, and they were forced to stop.

“We need to find the prisons,” Aragorn whispered. Yet where to start? The fortress was too large to search every inch. Perhaps if they captured an orc…but how to keep it from sounding the alarm before they got their answer?

Legolas was scanning the doorways and towers with narrowed eyes, his jaw clamped so tight it looked like it would take a wrench to unlock. Aragorn was about to suggest they just pick a door, when the prince lashed out to grip his arm.

“Aragorn, something’s—” A harsh gasp cut him off, and Aragorn grabbed the elf’s elbow in alarm. Then he felt it—a malevolent susurration that crawled along his skin and whispered in his ear like needles.

“ _What have we here?_ ” A hooded shape detached from the shadows, tendrils of mist peeling from its robes like sticky gossamer webs.

Aragorn’s blood turned to ice as he stared into a black void where a face was supposed to be. He had heard of the Nazgûl, learned their history as kings of men who’d fallen into darkness and become Ringwraiths to Sauron, been told of their fell powers, but nothing could have prepared him for the bone-chilling dread that washed over him in the presence of this creature. It was enough to make his knees go weak and threaten to buckle.

The wraith sniffed sharply, as though relying on scent more than sight. “ _An elf and a man? What foolishness brought you here to die? Do you not know who reigns here?_ ” The Nazgûl took a step forward, and Aragorn backed up instinctively. He felt Legolas shudder beside him, but then the elf drew his shoulders back and whipped out an arrow. With a twang, the arrow whizzed across the courtyard.

The Nazgûl, however, shot his arm up from beneath his cloak, and deflected the shot with what appeared to be a long walking stick. Aragorn’s eyes widened. He knew it was not Gandalf’s staff, the simple brown wood with a chiseled crown, which meant this upturned sapling with gnarled roots ensconcing a blue crystal must belong to Radagast.

The Nazgûl hissed viciously, and Aragorn felt the cloying aura that oozed over them. Legolas had drawn another arrow, but before he could even nock it to the string, it clattered uselessly to the ground, the elf’s hands shaking under the suffocating breath.

Aragorn raised his sword, which suddenly felt ten times heavier than normal. Still, he gritted his teeth against the nauseating influence and surged forward. The Nazgûl jabbed the wizard’s staff his direction, and an invisible force punched Aragorn in the chest, propelling his feet off the ground. He flew sideways several feet to collide with a stone wall. The wind was knocked out of him as he crumpled to the ground, gasping for air, and blackness encroached along the edges of his vision. Blinking through it, he saw the Ringwraith advance on Legolas, staff outstretched.

Legolas sucked in a painful breath and dropped to his knees, one hand clutching his bow in a white-knuckled grip, the other going to his throat as he choked.

“ _Such weak, pathetic creatures,_ ” the Nazgûl sneered. “ _You instantly begin to fade in the face of my master’s power._ ”

Legolas’s complexion had turned ashen, shoulders shaking with desperate, uncontrolled breaths. Aragorn pushed himself up onto his elbows. There had to be some way to fight a Ringwraith! He craned his neck back toward the sky, but the sun would be no help here. Wait, perhaps he could engineer another source of light.

Aragorn frantically patted around his pockets until he found his flint. A glance back at the Nazgûl showed the creature had dismissed Aragorn entirely while he fixated on Legolas. The Ranger skittered a short distance away to duck down behind a pillar and out of sight. He snatched up a rotted tree branch and began striking the chert against the flint for a spark.

“ _Ah!_ ” the Nazgûl suddenly rasped with relish. “ _I recognize you, Firstborn. The son of the Elvenking._ ”

Aragorn whipped his gaze around the obelisk and saw the wraith gliding closer toward Legolas.

“ _Khamûl will reward me for this. What elven secrets will you give up, hm?_ ”

Legolas could not seem to get any words out, but he lifted one of the most defiant glares Aragorn had ever seen. The Nazgûl was not impressed, and with a sharp whistle, pointed the crown of the wizard’s staff at the elf. Legolas flinched as though physically struck, his eyes squeezing shut.

Aragorn wrenched back to his task, pleading for the wood to catch. Finally a spark landed deep within the wood and began to smoke. With a small whoosh, the fire soon gained momentum, eating away all the dry rot. Aragorn leaped from his hiding place and charged the Nazgûl.

The wraith was too focused on Legolas to see him coming, and the Ranger thrust the burning branch through an opening in the Nazgûl’s cloak. Orange flames jumped to the fabric almost instantly, and the Ringwraith stumbled back, an ear-splitting shriek tearing from its being and piercing Aragorn’s skull like knives. The Nazgûl spun, batting at the burning robes, but in the next second, he’d become a human torch. Another screech went up, loud enough to alert the entire stronghold.

Aragorn darted toward Legolas, gripping his arm and hauling him to his feet. The elf stumbled, and clamped his free hand over one ear against the harrowing sound. His bow remained clenched in his other hand as though melded to his skin. Aragorn began pulling Legolas away, only to pause and snatch up the wizard’s staff from the ground as well. Then they staggered under an archway and away from the enraged Ringwraith.


	6. Where Trust is Forged

Legolas nearly tripped for the third time since Aragorn had hauled him away from the Nazgûl. The echo of that horrendous screech still rang in his ears, and an icy film clung to his skin like a thick cloak. He tried to shake off the feeling, but only succeeded in upsetting his already precarious balance. Behind them, shouts and drums had sounded the alarm, and the air was filled with guttural calls and roars as orcs rallied to their wounded leader.

Aragorn readjusted his grip, pulling Legolas’s arm higher over his shoulder as they scrambled under dilapidated archways and through crumbling passages. Legolas tried to keep track of where they were going, but his vision was coated in a white haze. He did notice, however, when Aragorn suddenly propelled him toward the edge of one of the chasms. Pulse leaping into his throat, he attempted to pull back, but the Dúnedan’s hold on him tightened, and then he was being pushed down onto a ledge that dipped in underneath the foundation of the fortress. Silt sprinkled from the ceiling as their heads lightly brushed it, and dead roots curling up from cracks threatened to snag their feet.

Once they were completely hidden inside the five-foot-wide cavity, Aragorn eased Legolas onto the ground and crouched in front of him. “ _Tíro nin_ ,” the Ranger commanded.

Still feeling dazed, Legolas nevertheless obeyed and looked at Aragorn. The man searched his face, though for what he didn’t know. One hand wrapped around Legolas’s hand, two fingers applying pressure to the inside of his wrist.

“Legolas?”

He blinked, curious about the myriad notes of sternness, worry, and urgency all rolled into the single tone Aragorn had used. “I’m alright,” he said, voice coming out paper-thin.

Aragorn frowned. “ _Man agore te angin?_ ”

A shudder rippled down Legolas’s spine. What had the Nazgûl done to him? He wasn’t quite sure. He’d had encounters with those fell creatures in the past, usually from a distance though, when their toxic presence would drive elves back during a fight with orcs. But never such crippling, invasive power as what he’d just experienced.

“He…he was in my mind.” Just speaking of it brought the sensation to life again, as though someone had inserted ice-numbing claws into his head and begun to peel it apart layer by layer. He felt Aragorn prying his left hand open, and glanced down in surprise when he saw it clamped tightly around his bow. The Ranger gently extracted the weapon, and Legolas’s fingers cramped with the sudden release of tension. He flexed them, focusing on the pain in order to ground himself.

“He wanted information,” Legolas continued, his voice gaining strength the more he talked, and so he pressed on, despite the horror speaking of it conjured. “About my father’s kingdom, our defenses. I refused to answer, and so he probed deeper.” Legolas swallowed hard.

Aragorn slid his pack around to his chest and pulled out a water skin, which he offered to Legolas, and helped hold steady when the elf’s hands continued to shake.

Legolas took several sips before leaning his head back against the rock. “ _Le hannon_ ,” he said in thanks, and shifted his gaze to meet the Dúnedan’s eyes. “I owe you my life and much more, Aragorn.” If the man had not acted when he did, Legolas did not think he would have been able to keep those secrets guarded for much longer. It rankled and shamed him to be so weak, even as he knew that there were few who could withstand such sorcery.

Aragorn reached out to clasp his shoulder. “I’m sorry I couldn’t have acted more quickly.”

“Why did you not flee?” Legolas asked in confusion. The Ringwraith had all but forgotten the man; he could have escaped easily.

Aragorn’s gaze darkened. “And leave you there?”

“Not many can stand against a Nazgûl. And he was wielding a wizard’s staff. It certainly would have been the wise decision to escape.”

“But not the right one,” Aragorn rejoined.

Legolas held back a sigh. “Gandalf still needs aid…”

“And you think I would sacrifice your life for his?” Aragorn shook his head.

“I was beyond help,” he pointed out hollowly. “You could not have known the fire would work.”

“Nor that it wouldn’t. And it did, so the point is moot.” The Ranger scooted back to lean against the opposite wall and crossed his arms. Legolas felt as though he’d somehow greatly offended the man, and was oddly troubled by the error.

“I don’t mean to seem ungrateful,” he said quietly. “As I said, you saved not only my life, but all of Mirkwood, for the secrets I know could have brought about our downfall. I am in your debt, _Aragorn in Dúnedain_.”

The Ranger’s jaw worked as though he was chewing on his response. Legolas did not know what he would request in payment for a life-debt, but if they managed to escape this place after all, the Mirkwood Prince would see it fulfilled.

“Even if the fire had not worked,” Aragorn spoke up. “I would not have left you to that fate,  _mellon nîn_ .”

Legolas arched a brow. _Friend?_

Aragorn smiled at the look and nodded resolutely. “Just as I will not abandon Gandalf, no matter the risk to myself.” His gaze turned inward, mouth pressed into a pensive line. “And the risk is great,” he murmured. “More than you know.” The Ranger seemed to be caught in a silent struggle then, eyes distant and disquieted. Legolas could only bide his time and focus on regaining his strength as distant howls and shrieks punctuated the air.

At last, Aragorn lifted his head, and there was a staunch decidedness in his gaze. “There is something I wish to share with you, Legolas, something that would mean my life should the wrong people hear it. Even the fate of Middle-earth, Gandalf would say.”

Legolas frowned. What secret could this man possibly carry that would bear dire consequences of that nature?

Aragorn took a deep breath. “My name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Chieftain of the Dúnedain and heir of Isildur.”

It took a moment before Legolas’s eyes widened. Was he jesting? No, the lines around the man’s eyes were tight and serious as he braced for the elf’s reaction, yet it was not his life he seemed to fear for in that moment. There was an unusual vulnerability in his bearing now. Legolas suddenly recalled Aragorn’s question whether he hated men for Isildur’s failure, for a weakness that could be ‘passed on.’ And Legolas then understood that the heir of kings sitting before him did not fear death or pain, but fate and condemnation.

Did Gandalf know of this? Of course he must have, and all those meaningful glances and snippets of conversation dropped to near whispers during their travels through Mirkwood began to make sense.

Legolas propped himself up further, new urgency flooding him. “Aragorn, if Gandalf knows…”

“I know.”

Certainly a wizard would be able to resist the Nazgûl’s mental invasion longer than an elf or man could, but for how long?

“You must leave this place. I will stay and search for Gandalf.”

The Ranger rolled his eyes in exasperation. “I already told you I will not abandon Gandalf, Radagast, or you.”

“It’s what Mithrandir would want,” Legolas pressed. “If you’re caught, and the Nazgûl delves into your mind—”

“Then we’d best make sure I’m not captured. And that goes for you too, since you now know the truth as well.” Aragorn’s lips twitched smugly, and Legolas didn’t know whether to be infuriated at his stubbornness or touched by such steadfast devotion.

“Why did you put yourself at greater risk by telling me?”

Aragorn canted his head. “Perhaps I thought it worth what was to be gained.”

Legolas stared at him. What could be gained from such an admission? More like the man was courting danger. Or…perhaps it was an offering. Of friendship. Why did Legolas suddenly suspect that had been Gandalf’s intention all along?

Before he could respond, the air vibrated with power, and a fell voice amplified throughout the stronghold. “ _Show yourselves, elf and man, if you value the wizards._ ” There was a long, pregnant pause, and the echo of a rattled chain. “ _I only need one of them alive._ ”

Both of them stiffened and exchanged alarmed looks. Neither could afford to surrender, but Aragorn more so. And as much as it went against every fiber in his being, Legolas knew he could not allow himself to be taken alive. He picked up his bow again. All he needed to do was give Gandalf a chance to escape.

Aragorn seemed to frown at what he saw in the prince’s eyes, and reached out to grasp his elbow. “I have a plan,” he said slowly, and grabbed the wizard’s staff he’d stolen back from the Ringwraith. “But you’ll have to trust me.”

Legolas studied the man before him in a new light. They had only just met, even had a rocky start, and yet in spite of all that, or perhaps because of it, Aragorn had just entrusted Legolas with a secret that could very well forfeit the man’s life. And Legolas found that it wasn’t at all difficult to return such faith.

“ _Estelon cin_.” _I do trust you_.

* * *

 

Gandalf drifted in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware of black blobs scuttling around the outside of the cage. Their grumblings in the Black Speech followed him into dark dreams where a lidless eye wreathed in flame taunted and mocked him, promising worlds of pain until he finally divulged everything they wanted to know.

A skull-splitting shriek jolted him back to awareness, and Gandalf blinked blearily as the smudged prison cell gradually solidified. The orcs who had been waiting for him to wake so they could torture him properly now twitched and cowered under the shrill siren. A roar went up outside, followed by another wraith’s screech, and the orcs hastily barreled out in response.

Radagast gripped the bars of his cage, pressing his face close to the iron. “Something’s happened, Gandalf.”

He sighed, having a fairly good idea of what—or _who_ —was the cause of the ruckus. And while he admired his friends’ bravery, a single elf and man were no match for the Nazgûl. Although…as he listened more closely, he could distinguish that the initial scream rending the air was one of rage and pain. Gandalf greatly wanted to know how the two had accomplished _that_.

“Take courage, my friend,” he said to Radagast. “I believe help is coming.”

The Brown Wizard’s bushy brows rose incredulously, and a spark returned to his dull eyes. Perhaps Gandalf was only giving him false hope, but it was hope nonetheless. Something he found himself clinging to dearly as well.

Gandalf strained his ears to listen to the sounds outside. He could tell search parties were being gathered and dispatched throughout the fortress, which meant Aragorn and Legolas had not been caught. _Valar, look after them_.

After a while, the roars had died down, and only the drumming of marching footsteps signaled the orcs were still pursuing the intruders. Dol Guldur was a large stronghold, yes, but there were not many places to hide from the enemy inside his own domain.

Gandalf straightened when metallic boots echoed from the corridor outside, and Khamûl strode into the dungeon, still bearing Gandalf’s staff. The Nazgûl commander wrenched open Radagast’s cage and reached in to grab the chain shackling the wizard’s wrists. Radagast yelped as he was roughly yanked out, his locked knees refusing to support his thin frame. He tumbled to the floor in a heap.

Khamûl moved to Gandalf’s cage next and hauled him out as well. Gandalf stumbled, but remained upright, his bones creaking and back aching from sitting hunched over for so long. Khamûl wrapped both chains twice around his arm for leverage, and began pulling the wizards toward the door. Gandalf barely had time to scoop his arms under Radagast and get the poor wizard to his feet before he was unceremoniously dragged.

The Ringwraith lugged them outside into one of the inner courtyards where a score of orcs had gathered, and then jerked the chains so as to drive the wizards to their knees. A mewl escaped Radagast as he once again hit the hard ground. Gandalf’s joints also jarred painfully from the impact.

Khamûl inhaled sharply, and the air in front of him wobbled with power as he projected his voice. “ _Show yourselves, elf and man, if you value the wizards._ ” He paused, and snapped the chains violently enough to crack Gandalf’s elbow. “ _I only need one of them alive._ ”

_Don’t you dare_ , Gandalf silently pleaded, even as he knew neither Legolas or Aragorn would ignore such an ultimatum. They could not know that the Enemy wanted Gandalf more than Radagast. Not that it would make a difference to them.

Khamûl turned and stalked toward Radagast, who shrank back. Gandalf tried to place himself between the Nazgûl and wizard, but Khamûl merely waved the staff at him, and an invisible punch knocked him flat on his back.

“Master!” an orc gargled.

Khamûl whipped around, and Gandalf lifted his head to follow the wraith’s gaze. His heart dropped into his stomach. Legolas stood on the opposite side of the quad, his bow slung over one shoulder and hands empty.

“ _Where is the man?_ ” Khamûl hissed.

“He ran off,” Legolas called back.

Khamûl exhaled with a wheeze. “ _I don’t believe you._ ”

Legolas’s eyes briefly flicked to Gandalf’s, worry and something else evident in the prince’s gaze. “He was just the wizard’s valet, hardly even a warrior.”

Gandalf almost snorted out loud. Well _that_ was poppycock. What were those two planning?

Khamûl drew himself up. “ _Take him!_ ”

The orcs converged on the elf, who whipped out his twin daggers in the blink of an eye. Gandalf held his breath, for twenty assailants were far too many for even a skilled Mirkwood warrior to handle alone. Legolas spun and slashed, ivory handled knives glinting even in the drab, sunless gloom. Orcs fell to the fury of the wood-elf and black ichor spritzed the air like mist.

With a sibilating sneer, Khamûl tossed the wizards’ chains to some nearby orcs and began to move in. Gandalf pushed himself upright, prepared to shout a warning, when a flicker of orange in his peripheral vision caught his attention. Khamûl stopped short as well, head jerking to the side where flames had begun to crackle and grow, running like a river over dried and dead vegetation. Another band of fire whooshed to life in the rear, and the orcs began to stagger distractedly. Legolas, however, barely gave the flames a glance as he cut down the stunned orcs.

Gandalf whipped his gaze back and forth, searching for Aragorn. A third wall of fire rose up, and then a flaming branch arced over Gandalf’s head to land at Khamûl’s feet. The Ringwraith staggered back before the flames could catch his cloak.

“Gandalf!”

The Grey Wizard craned his neck around in time to see Aragorn stand up on a stepped wall and toss Radagast’s staff through the air. Gandalf surged to his feet, ignoring the twinge in his bones, and caught the staff with both hands. Twirling around, he brought the head down on Radagast’s chains with a resounding crack and flash of blue light. The manacles on the Brown Wizard clunked to the ground. Radagast took the proffered staff then, flipping it around and uttering a word of power as he touched the crowned crystal to Gandalf’s wrists, and then his cuffs fell away as well.

Arrows had begun zinging through the air as Aragorn fired on the remaining orcs that had not started to flee in the face of the flames. By now, the whole of the courtyard was rimmed in a roaring blaze as every single piece of dry root and wood was consumed to ash.

Khamûl lifted his arms and let out an enraged shriek that cowed everyone within earshot, even his own orcs. Aragorn dropped his bow, and Legolas fell to one knee, hands clamped over his head. Shaking off the fell aura, Gandalf took the staff Radagast shoved back into his hands, and started toward the wraith. But Khamûl whipped Gandalf’s staff out toward the elf prince, whose body jerked with a startled gasp.

“ _Do not move,_ ” Khamûl seethed at Gandalf. “ _Or I will rip his_ _fëa from its shell._ ”

Gandalf froze, gaze flicking between the Nazgûl and Legolas, whose face had gone ashen and contorted in pain.

Khamûl sneered. “ _Are your secrets worth his life, wizard?_ ”

Gandalf gritted his teeth. He could not endanger the future of Middle-earth for one life, and yet he could not sacrifice Legolas either. “It is me you want, faithless and accursed. Let your strength be tested against mine.”

The Ringwraith laughed. “ _I already have, and you are deficient._ ” He twisted the staff a fraction, causing the elf to grunt and collapse on his side. “ _I know your weakness._ ”

Something whizzed past him, and a second later a flaming arrow struck Khamûl’s arm that was holding the staff. Though mortal weapons had no effect on Ringwraiths, he still screeched as tongues of fire lapped around the folds of his cloak. Gandalf did not have to look to know who had fired that arrow, and he sent up a prayer of thanks to the Valar for a Ranger’s quick thinking.

Khamûl dropped the staff and stumbled back, attempting to put out the flames. Gandalf surged forward and scooped the stick up. With two wizard staffs in hand, he brought them together and down with a flash of light, and Khamûl went up like a torch. His shrieks pierced the air, grating Gandalf’s ears with the sting of stabbing knives, and the Ringwraith turned and fled. The flames would not kill him, but he would be injured long enough for them to escape.

Gandalf glanced back to find Aragorn and Radagast crouched on the ground, hands clamped over their ears until the Nazgûl’s screams faded. “Aragorn!” he called, gesturing toward the frail Brown Wizard.

The Ranger managed to pull himself together and nodded, reaching for Radagast while casting a worried glance at something beyond Gandalf. The Grey Wizard turned and hobbled toward the Mirkwood prince. Legolas blinked dazedly up at him as he crouched down.

“Come, Legolas, we must leave,” Gandalf coaxed, and slipped a hand under the elf’s arm. It took some effort, but he got Legolas to his feet. With one arm wrapped around the prince’s waist and the two staffs in the other hand, Gandalf waited for Aragorn and Radagast to catch up, and then the four of them limped their way to freedom.


	7. A Friendship Sealed

Aragorn did not look back as the fortress of Dol Guldur faded under a mantle of fog. The horrendous screams of the Nazgûl had longed since ceased, and he wondered what had become of the creatures; he was not naive enough to believe they’d been severely hurt. The Ringwraiths would rise again to do their master’s bidding, as strong and terrifying as before. He felt a sense of premonition that he would be seeing them again.

For now though, Aragorn concentrated on his route of flight. Radagast was unnaturally light in his grip as the Ranger fought to hold him upright, a gaunt elbow occasionally jabbing his ribs when the wizard stumbled. Legolas was not faring much better, half-supported by Gandalf as they, too, trudged through the woods. Yet somehow they managed to press on, and made it back to Rhosgobel by dusk.

The deepening gloaming cast shadows across the forest floor and in between the trees, and yet there was something decidedly less sinister about twilight in this small patch of Mirkwood, untouched by the Shadow’s poison. From the roof of Radagast’s ramshackle cottage, an owl hooted, such a blessedly _normal_ sound that it almost made Aragorn grin.

Gandalf reached the door first and pushed it open. He and Legolas ducked inside, followed by Aragorn and Radagast. Both of the staffs in Gandalf’s hand lit up from the crowns, illuminating the small and incredibly cluttered interior. Aragorn bumped into a small table, rattling a handful of ceramic jars and glass bottles. Large roots and threads of ivy arched up and around paned windows to a pointed ceiling where various clusters of jugs, canvas bags, and wool meshwork hung. Aragorn had to duck under some of them on his way to depositing Radagast on a ratty cot in the back corner.

“Do we need to set a guard?” he asked.

Gandalf bent down in front of a miniature stone hearth, muttering under his breath. A second later, a fire popped into existence. “No, this place is well protected.” He then moved to begin lighting candles scattered around various shelves and windowsills, suffusing the cottage with a warm, comforting glow.

Aragorn turned toward Legolas, who had sagged forward against one of the exposed roots, both palms pressed flat to it and eyes closed as he breathed deeply. The Ranger grabbed a rickety chair from one of the work tables and dragged it over. “Here,” he said, placing it close to the shoot.

Legolas craned his neck to blink at him, and then bowed his head in appreciation before sinking into the chair, keeping one hand touching the tree.

Aragorn removed his pack and set it on the floor, kneeling down to dig out his medicinal supplies. “Were you injured?” He had studiously searched Legolas for signs of blood during the trek back, and though he hadn’t seen any, he’d feel better knowing for certain. The elf was still far too pale for his liking.

Legolas canted a mild look at the herb bags. “You’re a healer as well?”

“Have you not heard _my_ foster father’s reputation?” he asked wryly, and was pleased when he received a soft smile in return.

“See to the others first then; I don’t have any physical wounds.”

Aragorn frowned at the odd phrasing, but nevertheless turned back toward Radagast, who was sitting on the cot and wringing his hands together through his beard. His wrists were raw and bruised from the chains, and he was in dire need of a nutritious meal.

“Gandalf, can you heat some water?” Aragorn asked, only to find the wizard was already in the process of setting a kettle over the fire. The Ranger moved his supplies over to a small table next to the bed and laid them out. Gandalf drew a second bucket of water from a tiny well in the floor and brought it over, and watched as Aragorn gently cleansed the abrasions and bandaged them. Radagast winced frequently, his eyes constantly darting around.

When he’d finished the first wrist, Gandalf stepped away and went to Legolas. Their voices were pitched too low for Aragorn to hear the words, but a few minutes later, Gandalf was back at his side with a green-leafed package.

“You’ll have to eat small at first, until you’ve regained your constitution,” he said, breaking off a piece of waybread and handing it to Radagast. The Brown Wizard took it eagerly and began to nibble on it.

“It’s so quiet here, Gandalf. I hope they don’t think I abandoned them.” The frazzled wizard looked absolutely miserable as he chewed. “Poor Sebastian, I think he would have liked to share the _lembas_.”

“They’ll be back, my friend,” Gandalf reassured him.

Aragorn arched a surreptitious eyebrow at the Grey Wizard in question, yet when Gandalf leaned closer, it wasn’t to give an explanation.

“You’ll need _athelas_ , Aragorn,” he said quietly, and cast a meaningful look Legolas’s direction. The elf had closed his eyes again, one hand still resting on the tree root.

Aragorn furrowed his brow. _Athelas_ had its uses, particularly for serious wounds, but Legolas was not injured in that way… His eyes widened in realization. Of course, the Black Breath.

He urgently sifted through his satchels in search of the herb. “Do you two…?” he asked, glancing between the two wizards.

Gandalf shook his head. “Its effect does not linger on the Istari as it does on elves or mortals.” He went to the hearth and poured the now steaming water into a small cup.

Aragorn found the plant and crushed the leaves between his fingers, releasing a sweet, minty aroma that immediately invigorated him and dispelled the pall that had been hanging over him without his notice, for he had been too focused on helping his companions. He sprinkled the leaf flecks into the tea and then carried it over, taking a seat on a work bench carved into the hollow.

“Legolas,” he called, holding the cup near the waxen elf’s face so the calming fragrance could waft over him.

The prince’s eyelids slid upward sluggishly, revealing two irises of dulled blue, yet even one inhale of the _athelas’s_ scent imbued a glimmer of vibrancy back into them.

“Drink this.”

Legolas lifted his other hand to accept the cup, though Aragorn kept his hold on it, just in case. He coaxed Legolas into drinking all of it, and then leaned back pensively. He would have to trust in the plant’s potency and his own abilities as a healer. _“The hands of the king,”_ he’d been told more often than he wanted to hear.

“ _Le hannon,_ _mellon nîn_ ,” Legolas murmured.

Aragorn let out a sigh that released much of the tension he’d been carrying. “Rest now.”

Legolas grew still as he fell into sleep, but at least his eyes were only half-lidded rather than fully closed. Aragorn rose to his feet, stretching until his lower back popped. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he caught Gandalf with a satisfied smile on his face, but when he turned, the wizard merely lifted his brows in an innocent mien the Ranger didn’t buy for a second.

Aragorn shook his head, and went to join his nosy friend at the table.

* * *

 

Legolas stood in front of one of the windows, basking in the warmth of a shaft of sunlight streaming through. He couldn’t believe he had almost forgotten what it felt like, but thankfully the shroud of darkness had been banished from his spirit. Legolas glanced over his shoulder at the Ranger sleeping on the floor in front of the hearth, which had burned low during the night. Twice now, this man had saved him, a debt which Legolas could never repay; though, somehow he knew Aragorn, son of Arathorn, would never demand anything in return. What the man had _offered_ , however, was something Legolas had never had to consider before. Friendship with a mortal was not an easy thing to bear for those who walked the paths into eternity. And yet, he could not deny that it felt _right_.

A soft snore hitched the man’s breathing, signaling his imminent wakefulness. Legolas turned back to gazing out the window, lips twitching at the rather unusual sight gathering outside. A few moments later, a presence sidled up beside him, and Aragorn made a soft noise of disbelief in his throat.

“How long have they been out there?” he asked quietly, for the two wizards were still slumbering.

“Since dawn,” Legolas replied. “If you think it permissible, we should wake Radagast. I think this would do him good.”

“I agree,” Aragorn said, hesitating long enough to shake his head at the motley gathering of three foxes, two raccoons, half a dozen squirrels and chipmunks, a waddling porcupine, and even a skunk. There were also several birds hopping around on the ground and pecking at the dirt, as though they were part of the crowd as well.

“Aragorn.”

The man paused mid-turn, and Legolas reached out to clasp his shoulder firmly. “I did not have the chance to say it before, but your true name is safe with me. It is an honor to be entrusted with that knowledge—and your friendship.”

For a moment, Aragorn only blinked in surprise. Then he lifted his other arm and returned the elvish embrace with equal measure of heart and sincerity. “ _Gail sílle erin lû e-govaned 'wîn_.”

Legolas grinned. A star certainly had shone on the hour of their meeting, and, he felt, would continue to.

They woke the two wizards, directing them to look outside. One glance, and Radagast’s nervousness vanished in a flurry of excitement as he shuffled out the door. Legolas had never seen a more peculiar sight than that of woodland creatures practically bouncing for the wizard’s attention. Aragorn looked just as perplexed, while Gandalf grinned in amusement.

Something warbled intrusively then, and a tiny hedgehog pushed his way through the throng.

“Sebastian!” Radagast scooped up the little fellow and nuzzled its nose.

Legolas could not help but grin; there were too few moments of such joyous innocence left in the world.

“It’s so good to see you all again,” Radagast prattled. “You’ll have to tell me what you’ve been up to.”

Aragorn’s brows shot up as the Brown Wizard gestured excitedly, and all the forest animals went bounding into his cottage. “Does he actually hear them speak?” the Ranger asked dubiously.

Gandalf shrugged. “Who knows.” He then turned a knowing gaze toward Legolas. “I’m glad to see you well again, young prince. I assume you’ll want to be returning home as soon as possible.”

Legolas nodded. “It’s best not to keep my father worrying too long.”

Gandalf chuckled. “Indeed. I appreciate everything you and Aragorn did—even if you did disobey my orders,” he harrumphed.

Aragorn did not bother to hide a cheeky grin. “What do you expect, Gandalf? I’d say your tendency to _meddle_ has worn off on us.”

Legolas laughed, a melodic chord that filled the glade with ripples of mirth.

Gandalf’s beard twitched with a mixture of indignation and poorly concealed gaiety, and then he sobered again. “I think I will stay a little while longer,” he said, craning a glance over his shoulder. “Just until I’m sure Radagast has fully recovered from his ordeal.”

Legolas nodded in understanding.

“Will you be alright traveling back to the palace?” Gandalf asked.

The elf resisted an eye roll. “The forest may be darker, but it is still my home and I know it well.”

“Speaking of which,” Aragorn interjected. “I’ve always wanted to see Mirkwood, and what better guide than a wood-elf?”

Legolas’s eyes narrowed a fraction, glancing between the Ranger and wizard and wondering if they’d arranged that. Gandalf certainly seemed pleased, but Aragorn’s expression was tentatively hopeful.

Legolas smiled and nodded. “It would be my pleasure to show you.”

“All the way to the palace?” Gandalf asked curiously.

“If it is permitted,” Aragorn replied, casting a questioning look toward Legolas.

“Of course it is,” the wizard answered first. “You’d best start off then, for it’s a several day journey. Oh, do say hello to Thranduil for me,” he added cheerfully as he ducked back into the cottage, which had gotten a mighty lot more crowded.

Legolas snorted, and muttered under his breath, “Coward.”

Aragorn frowned. “Is there something I should know about?”

“My father _can_ live up to his reputation,” Legolas admitted reluctantly. “Are you sure you want to brave that so soon after our recent harrowing experience?” He did not want to admit that the thought of the Ranger backing out would bring him disappointment.

Aragorn tilted his head as though pondering it, but then a smile tugged at his mouth. “I think it’s worth it.”


End file.
